The Burnt House

“Good to hear, specially ’cause he talks with an accent.”

“He’s originally from Cuba. Is he the one doing the identification for the recovery?”

“He’s the one, and that’s why I’m calling you. When I talked to him, he sounded cagey.”

“Cagey?” Decker raked his fingers through his hair. “In what way, Farley?”

“Like he knew somethin’ and didn’t want to tell me. Call him up for me and find out what’s going on. If you call me back and tell me I’m bein’ paranoid, I’ll believe you. But I want you to be damn straight with me, Decker, if you also think that he sounds fishy.”

“Fishy?”

“I asked him if he got to Roseanne’s autopsy—a straight yes-or-no question. The problem is he didn’t give me a straight yes-or-no answer. What I got was doctor-talking, jumbled-up bird crap. I come to trust you, and I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts ’cause I don’t trust no one. So do me the favor, Decker. Call him up and see if your bullshit detector is as finely tuned as mine.”

THE CALL TO Dr. Darwin was quick, but the answer wasn’t at all to Decker’s liking.

“I think this might be better if we meet in person,” he answered.

Cesar Darwin had been in the country for twenty-five years, but his accent was still thick and he was hard to understand over the phone. Decker thought it was because Cesar had been holed up in the Crypt talking to corpses instead of seeing patients with beating hearts. He probably didn’t get a lot of auditory feedback.

A face-to-face meeting was probably a good idea.

“It’s complicated?” Decker asked him.

“Yes.”

“What time works for you?”

“I have another autopsy. How about two? I’ll be done and I’ll be hungry. I know a great Cuban place not too far from here. Unless you want to meet at the Crypt.”

Decker thought back to his prekosher, Floridian days. Cuban cuisine offered very little in the way of pure vegetarian entrées. Even the rice and beans were often mixed with lard. On the other hand, the Cubans made a great cup of strong coffee. Besides, anything was better than the stench of dead bodies. “Cuban sounds fine. Give me the address and we’ll meet you there.”

“We?”

“I’m bringing along Detectives Dunn and Oliver. I fear that I might need them.”

WHILE DECKER NURSED his coffee, Oliver, Dunn, and Darwin gorged on pastelitos—little puff pastries of ham, chicken, pork, and a Cuban specialty, pacadillos, a spicy ground beef. In addition to the savory tarts, there was a pot of pork adobo. Sides included fried black beans and fluffy white rice. The day was mild, which was convenient because the East L.A. storefront restaurant had no air-conditioning. The sidewalks were humming with activity, some of it legal, some of it otherwise, but it wasn’t Decker’s district and he wasn’t in the mood to look for trouble. Even though Decker couldn’t eat the food, he could smell it and the aromas had aroused his taste buds. Thank goodness he kept kosher. It helped keep his weight down.

There must have been considerable spice in the food because Marge was sweating even after taking off her sweater and rolling up the sleeves of her white blouse.

“Really good.” Oliver had shed his suit jacket and was now in the process of loosening his tie and rolling up his own long sleeves. “How’s the coffee, Loo?”

“Good. And I should know. I’ve had four cups.”

“Caffeinated?” Marge asked.

“According to my heart, yes.”

Darwin summoned a local girl of about fifteen. She had chocolate, curly hair and gang insignia tattoos inked across her arms, neck, and back—everything from snakes and tigers to butterflies. The artwork was intricately done, which meant a lot of needles and a fair amount of pain. She wore a denim miniskirt and a black wife-beater T. Her toenails were painted black and her feet were shod in flip-flops. Lazily, she got up from her chair and took out a pad. The doctor had explained to them that her father owned the place and this was her employment since she dropped out of school.

“Coffee, Dr. Cesar?”

“For the table, Marta.”

She turned to Decker. “I think you had enough coffee.”

“You’re right. I’ll take water.”

“You don’t like Cuban food?”

“I had an enormous breakfast,” he answered her in Spanish. “I’m just not hungry.”

Marta wrinkled her nose. “You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. I bring you some dessert, okay?”

“What kind of dessert?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t eat anything baked with lard.”

She harrumphed and turned tail. A few minutes later she was back with the coffees and a plate of sizzling hot fritters. “Vegetable oil only.”

Decker smiled and picked up the fried concoction. It melted in his mouth. “Oh, man, this is good. But it requires coffee.”

“I’ll bring you decaf.”

The better part of an hour had passed, and it was time for the discussions to begin in earnest. Decker turned to Darwin. “I’m sure my fellow detectives are grateful for the meal, but that’s not why we’re here. What’s going on, Doc?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I called you down.” The doctor ate a fritter and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “This is a very perplexing case, yes, and a most difficult autopsy. The skeleton has been thoroughly charred, everything reduced to bones and, unfortunately, ashes. We hope to make a definite identification through the teeth. We do have an intact skull, but it is very delicate. Since we don’t want to damage forensic evidence, we have been treating it quite gingerly. As a result, it has been hard to get the exact angle to match the dentition in the radiographs given to us by Roseanne’s dentist. The jaw is thicker in bone mass, so it is a bit sturdier and easier to position. But I must emphasize, what we are working with is very fragile.” Darwin stopped talking, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve had three forensic odontologists compare and contrast the pre-and postmortem radiographs. We all agree that the skull does not belong to Roseanne Dresden.”

The table fell silent. Oliver coped with the news by eating three fritters in a row.

Darwin said, “As you well know, the recovery team has accounted for all the missing females involved in the crash except Roseanne Dresden. So this unexplained female body poses a problem.”

“You’re sure it’s female?” Marge asked.

“The pelvic bones, by the angle and appearance, are almost certainly female,” the doctor answered. “But even if it was a small male or an adolescent boy, we’d still have a problem. Still unaccounted for from the crash are two male bodies: an old man in his seventies and another man in his forties. We do not have the pelvis of an old man or a man in his forties. It is most certainly a woman, and I would say probably a young woman. But an old young woman, meaning I think the body predated the crash. Once the mandible did not match up with Roseanne Dresden’s radiograph, we began to study the bones more carefully. On the top of the skull there is a well-formed depression.”

“Blunt-force trauma,” Decker said. “Homicide.”

“Probably that would be my ruling if the body was in better shape. Right now I’m going with inconclusive because of all the extenuating circumstances.”

“How long has the body been lying there?” Oliver was up to number five in the fritter department. Last one, he swore to himself.

“If it would have been discovered before the fire, I would have had a much better idea. Now it is almost impossible for me to say.”

Decker twirled the ends of his mustache. He did that in order to prevent his hands from taking more dessert. “Can you at least tell us a race?”

“Possibly Caucasian, possibly Hispanic.”